


A Name

by DoubleL27



Series: Where My Love Grows and Other Stories [2]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coming Out, Family, Gen, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Queer Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleL27/pseuds/DoubleL27
Summary: For the Rosebudd Writes Prompt: 2. BreathlessThis story is an exploration of an Alternate Universe I'm toying with.Thanks to this_is_not_nothing for taking care of this fic and me. All errors are my own.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer & Marcy Brewer
Series: Where My Love Grows and Other Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624537
Comments: 15
Kudos: 62





	A Name

**Author's Note:**

> For the Rosebudd Writes Prompt: 2. Breathless
> 
> This story is an exploration of an Alternate Universe I'm toying with. 
> 
> Thanks to this_is_not_nothing for taking care of this fic and me. All errors are my own.

Patrick carefully slides his key in the lock and twists it softly, hearing a swift click as the lock gives way. One would think that a twenty-two year old Minor League Baseball Player, you wouldn’t have to sneak into the house anymore, but Marcy Brewer is a light sleeper and no matter how much Patrick protested that she go to bed and just sleep, she always seems to wake up and ask him questions. With the riot of emotions bouncing around inside him, Patrick really doesn’t want to face an inquisition.

Patrick eases the door closed and flips the lock closed slowly with a soft snick. He toes off his shoes, shucks the sports coat he’d worn to dinner and folds it neatly over his arm as he moves into the kitchen. If he’s quiet enough, he could creep to the back stairs and disappear up them before anyone was the wiser. 

There is a faint glow from the lamp at the base of the stairs. Patrick wonders when, if ever, his mother is going to stop wanting to do things to make sure he made it to bed safely. It’s not until he rounds the corner he realizes that the light wasn’t just for him.

“Hi honey,” his mom says, her voice soft and affectionate and far too much for him to handle, “you’re looking very nice this time of night.”

Patrick freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He swallowed the lump of churning that was happening inside and forced a smile, “Hey, Mom.”

Of course his mother is up at 11:30 at night, sitting on the couch with her latest church craft fair project laid out in front of her and her hot glue gun dripping slightly onto the top of the TV tray table. Patrick cannot simply be a regular, coming home and living his life. His mom has to be sitting there, smiling at him. He decides at that moment, closing his eyes to envision it, it doesn’t matter that he’s still in the AA leagues waiting for his call up, he needs to find his own place. 

“I’m glad you’re getting out there, again. What was she like?”

The word _she_ is where his brain freezes. Instead he pictures his date, slim build and tanned skin, with square frames over deep brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow. He’s left breathless as his mom continues to look at him, unblinking. He forces air into his lungs and manages to stammer, “I--I didn’t say it was a date.”

“Patrick Daniel Brewer,” his mom chides with a laugh, “you were wearing a sports coat. It is not Christmas, Easter or a game day. You didn’t have to.”

“I’m that obvious, huh?” he asks, affecting a chuckle, and asking the same question he’d asked of his very male date. It had taken at least four months of sneaking into open mic nights to realize the barista whose art decorated the walls was hitting on him. When asked why he had been attracted to Patrick, he’d given a quick laugh and said it was the endearing way Patrick’s eyes would slide to his and quickly away.

He didn't even know what it was then.

His mom is oblivious to his thoughts, though, and smiles. “Yes. I know you’re too old to sit around and tell me all the details like you did when I helped you drop off that Valentine mixed tape for Caitlin Doherty in Grade 6. You’re going to be a fancy star now,” she teases, and he loves her faith that he’ll ever get out of the minor leagues and into the majors, “but can I at least get a name?”

He could say no, head up to bed and leave his mother with her disappointed face. He could make up a name, stutter through the lie, and head up to bed and feel sick over it. Or, he could do something he hasn’t known how to do since he ended things with Rachel again and was left with a litany of questions. 

Taking a deep breath, and another one, Patrick decides to be brave and crosses to the couch, wheeling around his mother’s tray table and laying his coat carefully over the armrest. He sits, sinking into the soft cushions and takes his mom’s hand.

“Patrick, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he tells her, hoping against hope that he’s not wrong about that. He knows his parents. He knows his <>mother. Nothing is wrong. 

He squeezes her hand, more for himself than for her and tries his best to override the skittering fear that he’s wrong. “My date tonight,” Patrick starts, trying to keep his voice from cracking, “his name is Ken.”

With that, the air is expelled from his lungs and he waits, breathless, for his mother’s response.


End file.
